


The War at Home

by LanaDelRae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanaDelRae/pseuds/LanaDelRae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's pasts have led them to this point in their lives. War, drugs, they both wreak havoc in their own ways.</p>
<p>Flashbacks of life before becoming flatmates and insight into the intricacies of their relationship may make them the perfect remedy for one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Sherlock fic I've decided to do, so please be easy. Excuse my Americanisms and, as always, these wonderful characters are the property of ACD and the mind's of Moffat/Gatiss.
> 
> There is heavy drug use and so much angst I couldn't not help but write, so proceed if you will and enjoy!
> 
> Chapter two is practically finished, so I'll be posting that very soon.

He heard police sirens racing towards him. Not too much longer he saw their lights bouncing off the dark London buildings. Anyone within their right mind would be running, feet pounding hard on the pavement to escape their pursuers, possibly jumping over a collection of trash bins to stay out of sight. Maybe vault themselves over an alley fence or up a fire escape, but not him.

He sat idly in the dingy cafe's window table, praying hands just touching the tip of his nose. With a whir the police cars sped past him and out of sight with only their faint flickering lights and Dopler sound lingering. He kept his gaze fixed out the window, which matched it's surroundings to the tee. They were slightly fogged from the alternating temperature of the hot cafe and the frigid London winter, but they were also caked with a small layer of dirt. They hadn't been cleaned in six, maybe seven months. Squeegee marks were barely visible on the top right corner, furthering his deduction it had been a solid seven months since their last through cleaning.

He blinked once and pulled his collar tight before rising, silently, like a great crow, and just as swiftly making his way out the cafe door. No one in the cafe batted an eye when he departed, as if he'd never even been there. He walked the dark street as if he hadn't a care in the world, as if those police cars weren't after him. They were, indeed. But they were making their way to Charing Cross, where it had been falsely reported he had been seen lingering amongst the dealers. Needless to say he wasn't lingering amongst the dealers, not those at least. He had decided to go to a different one tonight, where he would not be seen by the pesky Yardies. Pesky indeed. He was currently being tracked for "supposed" involvement in a string of drug movements, although he wasn't "involved" per say, he simply happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was something not unusual for the tall stick of a man. He could easily turn himself over and explain the entire ordeal away, supporting evidence to his innocence and all, but truth be told, he enjoyed the thrill of the chase. He decided he would let them on for a while, just to get their knickers twisted. And to satiate his lust for the dangerous.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was someone with whom he had a tricky relationship with. If he wasn't desperately needed to help them work out a string of murders or robberies, he was being hunted down by Scotland Yard. Lestrade, for all his faith in the man, was weak to the power of peer pressure. Instead of being tracked every other week like a suspicious criminal mastermind and answering to the tired questions of Donovan and Anderson, he much preferred bringing the perpetrators to justice without the knowledge of Scotland Yard at all. Oh, could he get so much done when he wasn't being hounded by the DI's goons.

_'Maintaining the balance, ya know for public appeal'_ that's what he had been told by Lestrade. Bollocks.

Tonight he was heading to a new corner, somewhere that was suggested to him from a member of his ever-reliable homeless network. His steely eyes scanned every sign, every passing face, every crack in the pavement. Sometimes it was just a fleeting glance, sometimes he lingered, regardless he was able to ascertain much more information from those glances than the average human. _'Superhuman,'_ he thought to himself with a self-serving half grin. Why shouldn't he classify himself as one? He mentally rolled his eyes as a reverberation of smarmy comebacks circled through his head.

_'Superhuman? More like freak,' 'Piss off, you mental patient,' 'Try giant prick, more like,' 'Show off…'_

The list could go on and on but he quickly silenced his mind and stuck his fidgeting fingers deep in his coat pockets. He had dreaded this part, the irksome twitching. It was an annoyance because it was something he could not control, something his body was doing in reaction to chemical imbalances, in this case withdrawl.

He set his jaw as he attempted to steady his fingers. He curled his hands into trembling fists insetad, which was no improvement. The anxiety boiling inside sickened him. He hated not having complete control over what he saw, did, said, or thought. His foot steps, which had been echoing sharply against the damp asphalt, stopped suddenly, just a mile from Baker Street. He didn't jump as a figure came out from the shadows of a side ally.

"S.H.?" The figure murmured, head down and jacket pulled tightly around him. He smelled like fish. He had been circling the dumpster of the fish and chips joint just down the street. They put their trash out on Tuesdays. How vile. It was halibut maybe, yes definitely halibut.

With a fluidity that was shocking for a man his size, he swung around, long coat rippling behind him, and raised an eyebrow to his fishy friend.

"Yes," was all he said in his rumbling baritone.

The fishy man went to speak, but coughed roughly instead. His salvaged meal from the take away was caught in his throat still, as evidenced by the fresh drippings on his shirt and oil on the left corner of his mouth. The man cleared his throat and surveyed the area warily.

"No one is coming," drawled the baritone, his patience wearing thinner by the second. He needed to get back home soon, he could feel his toes wriggling anxiously in his pointed black shoes. He took a breath, steadying himself.

"You never know, mate, always gotta be sure," the other man said, stepping into the shadows and removing something from his breast pocket.

"I am certain there is no one coming because the traffic lights on either side of these streets are red for another thirty, twenty nine, twenty eight seconds, this building has been vacant following a fire by the looks of the scorch marks in the second floor windows, possibly two years ago, that shop on the corner closes at 9, clearly, and not to mention this is a dead end," he pointed a shaking finger at the yellow DEAD END sign not 200 yards away from them and finally exhaled.

"Blimey," fishy gaped. "They told me you were an odd character, but I never-"

"If I wanted to chat you up, I would have asked for your mobile," he snapped impatiently.

"R-right, yeah," the man fumbled with the bag he pulled out of his pocket and hastily grabbed a tinier plastic pouch out, which was filled with a white powder. "Here y'are, mate, 50 quid, specially for you." The taller, dark-haired man snatched the pouch out of the other's hand, making his jump a little, and just as fast passed a note into his now-empty hand. Before the dealer had time to properly react to the transaction, his buyer was stalking down the street, coat flapping behind him.

"Be seeing you again, mate!" He called, pocketing his money and contraband.

"Not likely, I don't like the way you smell," he called back behind him before disappearing around the corner like a phantom.

He took the steps of 221B two at a time, slamming his door behind him. With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the coffee table of all the miscellaneous papers littering it, sending them flying onto the floor. His coat and scarf were practically ripped off him as he threw himself onto the old couch. Like a mechanism he worked, arranging the powder is a perfect line and rolling a note into a perfectly cylindrical tube. He didn't even hesitate before snorting the powder, the boredom, anxiety, and withdrawal hitting him all at once. He stiffened, dropping the rolled-up note and digging his fingers into the tops of his thighs. His gasp of relief and automatic high was enough to knock him back. A wave shot through his long frame, then another as a wicked smile passed his lips. Here, in his flat, he would stay until the drugs lasted him. That could be days or even hours depending on his level of boredom. But if this month alone had been any indication, he would be requesting Mrs. Hudson to fetch him more packets of cigarettes before 24 hours was up.

Did he have a problem? Yes. Absolutely.

He realized this and yet continued. It wasn't his fault. There were only so many experiments he could do, only so many police cases he could snoop in on without being noticed, only so many mornings he could spend people-watching in Trafalger Square. This woefully average world sometimes could not hold a candle to his constantly buzzing brain. London wasn't cutting it for him anymore, so back into his addiction he fell.

He could feel it getting worse each time. He could expect Mrs. Hudson would soon ask him to leave if he didn't clean up his act, he knew his brother would resentfully send people to check-up on him, but that was it. After all, he didn't have anyone else's lives he was disturbing with his problem.

He suddenly bounced off the couch and clapped his hands together, a manic glint in his now electric eyes.

"Right, yes! Brilliant!" He exclaimed, frantically rolling up the sleeves on his black dress shirt- which uncovered freshly healed needle punctures, gave his curls a tousle with his bony fingers, and practically skipped into his kitchen lab. The energy radiating off him was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

* * *

 

_Sherlock, Sherlock…_

The voice was faint, but the tightness and distress in it could be clearly heard.

_Sherlock…_

This time the inflection signaled the end of the speaker's patience. It was not far off from how his mother used to call him when he got in trouble.

He could not wake. He actually preferred not to. He was quite enjoying this sensation running through his body. He had been told this dealer sold his own special blend. An exciting mystery to some, to Sherlock, not so much. It was mixed with about half a tab of ecstasy, lending the high on a whole different plane. Not unlike certain queluds.He felt himself walking, gliding, down the spiral staircase of his old uni.

Wait, no, he no longer wanted to be sleeping, however he was fairly certain he had knocked himself out last night, the night before? He wasn't certain exactly which day it was. But the one glass of scotch he downed not long after his third bump of cocaine was enough to knock the living daylights out of him. He felt transparent as he surely floated down the seemingly never-ending stairs, but the string of disembodied insults that surrounded him made him feel like he was sinking, quickly. Warped faces peered down from stairs above and below, their mouths never moving but the harsh names seeming to emanate from them nonetheless. Twisted phrases such as:

_Watch it, prick, or you'll never get any… Sod off, you fuck… No one asked you, idiot… Fuck. Off._

He needed to will his body to wake up. This was quickly becoming tedious. He made a mental note to never mix the alcohol and drugs in this specific combination ever again. He just hoped he would be able to recall it once he was sober. He scoffed at himself, despite his nightmarish state.

_"Of course you will be able to recall it, you're Sherlock Holmes."_

_Of course he said that, he's Sherlock fucking Holmes, he doesn't have a filter…_

He willed himself to stop descending the staircase, but it was no good.

_"Pull yourself out, Sherlock, you've done it before, just focus and pull yourself out,"_ it echoed in his brain, a rubber ball bouncing off the walls, but never hitting it's intended target.

**_Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus!_ **

He gasped, eyes shooting open as he scrambled to his feet, only to fall back down. He misjudged his legs as they fell out from under him. A shaking hand caught the side of his cushy armchair, breaking the fall. He blinked frantically, his swirling, blurred vision slowly coming into focus. He pulled the mental note about the combination to the forefront of his mind and kept it there, cursing himself.

He stayed on the ground until he got his bearings, until his breath stopped coming out in ragged gasps, and until the feeling returned to his toes. He was very used to bringing himself back from rather nasty highs by now, it almost seemed procedure. Ever since he was somewhat of a wanted vigilante around London, his unfortunate addiction had reared it's ugly head. It helped his franticly turning mind pass the time when the ordinary man's world no longer got him high on adrenaline.

He took in his shabby surroundings, testing his vision. Soft, new light filtering through the closed blinds: sunrise, approximately 6:24 AM. The small layer of dust that coated his flat danced and swirled in the rays of sunlight shining through. Mrs. Hudson had not dusted in nearly a week and a half. This was most likely due in part to him chasing her out every time she attempted. He hated it when she dusted.

Now, what day was it? A savory smell began to waft up the stairs and under his flat door. It was Sunday and Mrs. Hudson already had her Sunday roast in the slow cooker. Bless her.

He finally stood, albeit on still wobbly legs, and turned to the mirror that hung above his hearth to take inventory of himself. His dark brown head of curls was even more askew than normal, an oily sheen noticible after days of unwash. He ran a pale hand through it, expression completely blank as he stared at his gaunt face, bloodshot eyes and all. Approximately 4-5 days of unwash settled on his thin frame. He hadn't remembered changing from his dress shirt and black slacks into pajamas, but at some point he had, as evidenced by the dress shirt in question thrown over a tall stack of papers and his trousers tied around his refrigerator handle.

He squinted in their direction, not able to recall exactly why he had put them there. This was a new personal record for days spent out of commission, five whole days. To his knowledge he had not left the flat in those five days, had not eaten, possibly hydrated (a necessary function for him to be standing), and had had no contact with another human being. Part of him was elated at the success of his sadomasochistic experimentation on his own body in relation to excessive drug use; another part of him was coherent enough to realize he was not exactly a success right now. Far from it.

He dug his hand into his dressing gown and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket. He groaned as he took out the last one, stuck it between his cracked lips, and proceeded to light it with the gas stovetop burner. He paced the flat, taking long drags to ease his comedown. He would need to finally venture into the world if he wanted more cigarettes. Damn it. Two other crumpled packs lay on the kitchen table. He smirked as he noticed his improvement from two packs a day to three within five days, but then remembered the now empty bag of cocaine on the coffee table and the half empty bottle of scotch next to it.

On his tenth trip around the flat he noticed his mobile peeking out from under a pile of experiment notes. He stared at it for 30 seconds before deciding to pick it up and see who even bothered to converse with him. He scoffed as the screen illuminated and a single message displayed- Mycroft. He thought about deleting it, tossing the mobile in his hand lightly. He surprisingly decided against it, stubbing out his last precious cigarette in the ashtray and almost throwing himself into his leather armchair. Tired, yet alert eyes scanned the message, which was from yesterday afternoon.

**_My place tomorrow for supper. MH_ **

Not likely, Sherlock thought. Especially not in his current state. Mycroft only wanted to bring him in for questioning, anyway. Their estranged relationship was tedious, dull, and a complete waste of Sherlock's energy. There were times shared as boys when they would be thick as thieves, partners in crime, but more often it was a constant game of one-up. Sherlock was led to believe himself an imbecile by his older brother. He was inferior to Mycroft's intelligence, mentally damaged, and all that. Come to find out he was just as high-functioning as his brother, even more so (in his opinion). So, no. He would not join his brother at his extravagant mansion for a supper just as uninspiring as Mycroft's personality. He stopped letting it get to him a long time ago. He was especially different if a brilliant mind such as his could not even relate to an equal mind as his brother's. Through probability, he doubted he would ever meet someone with whom he was compatible. Emotions. Pfft, petty things that freeze up one's true mental capabilities. He had no time or room for them. He tossed the mobile onto the chair he had just vacated and stripped down one piece of clothing at a time on his way to the shower.

* * *

"GET DOWN, GET DOWN!"

A barrage of shots fired, a group of civilians screaming, and the sound of rocks, dust and sand flying up into the air. The soldiers dove for the nearest cover, which happened to be a camo green humvee. Their breathing was labored as the dust filled their lungs. It was difficult to get used to at first, the constant coating of desert in his mouth, but eventually you get used to everything around here, even death.

"Ten o'clock, sniper unit!" The Captain shouted to his squadron, dropping his binoculars and jerking his head towards the source of the shots. His face was caked in debris. Showers were few and far between right now.

God, what he wouldn't give for an absolutely glorious shower. Soap and suds, hot, propelling water and a good clean shave. Top that all off with a fluffy towel, dressing gown, a nice cuppa and the morning paper-

"Watson!" He shook his head. The cozy daydream falling to the ground.

"Captain Watson!" One of his privates signaled him over to another parked humvee, just behind a sand dune. Watson quickly surveyed the scene. The fire had ceased and smoke was swirling, just starting to clear. With the cover of sand, he prison crawled over to his private, dark eyes ever vigilant.

"Captain, the civilians-" Was all the soldier spoke. The Captain quick took his walkie out. With their snipers hiding amongst the curvature of the dunes, they couldn't take a risk running out on their own.

"This is Captain Watson, Fifth Northumberland-" A crack of static and a moments pause before the other line answered.

"Roger, Captain Watson-" a rough male voice answered.

"Going to need arial back-up near base 14G, multiple shots fired, possible sniper alert, civilians down-"

"Copy, sending reinforcements- keep us posted Captain-"

"Roger-" He turned his attention to the task at hand. The kick-up from the firestorm of bullets had nearly settled. He could faintly make out bodies, two, maybe three. His stomach caught in his throat every time he saw one. You never became accustomed to death and warfare, no, you only became numb to it. He had been in Kabul for six months now, but been on tour for two years. It seemed like a millennia. They were supposed to be returning troops home soon. Or at least that's what President Obama and PM Brown had said. That was six months ago. Gradually troops filtered back home, but in this city, Al Qaeda held strong. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to be back home to England, yet in actuality he knew he would have nothing worth returning home to.

Out here at least he had purpose, a mission. He was Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Dr. John H. Watson. Like his father's before him he was serving queen and country with dignity. There was no greater purpose in his mind.

"Oi, back-up, Captain!" His private next to him shouted, finger pointing to four air crafts gaining on them.

"ALRIGHT, STAY DOWN!" He shouted, motioning for his squadron to stay low until the airstrike was over. No, there was no greater purpose. God forbid he not die in battle and have to be sent home to his empty, mundane English life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life before becoming flatmates was rough, to say the least, for both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the angst continues!

"Sherlock, dear, why don't you go outside, get some fresh air?" The curly-headed man paced his flat, nervous twitches rippling through his reedy physique every now and then. His heart was beating faster and more erratically than normal, only enhancing his jitters.

"Mrs. Hudson, I hardly think air on the ground floor will do me any better than the air coming through this second floor window," He snapped, gesturing to his half opened window. She whimpered in response to his answer, crossing her arms in front of her chest and standing her ground.

"Let me make your favorite breakfast, surely you're hungry? Or a nice cuppa?" She tried, watching him intently. He groaned, hands shooting up into his hair and tugging.

"Mrs. Hudson, _PLEASE_!" He yelled, banging his fist down on the kitchen table. She jumped, hands pressed to her heart in shock.

"Now really, Sherlock-" She began before he snapped.

"This is my situation; I have not smoked in two days because I cannot leave this flat, I cannot leave this flat because my hands are trembling and my mind is haywire, my hands are trembling because I have not had any proper drugs in my system in three days, rendering me useless and confined to drinking the rest of this bloody awful scotch that you gave me last Christmas, so do you see now why no fresh air or slopped together breakfast will help me!?" He cricked his neck to the side, jaw tight and heart racing.

He was still staring at his closed fist on the kitchen table. He was not able to look Mrs. Hudson in the eye as he was saying all that, he couldn't bear to. He felt himself cracking, breaking down. He knew what was going to come out of her mouth before she even said it.

"I think," She took a steadying breath. "I think it's time you found yourself some help, or-" Another breath. "Or I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave." She straightened up, nodding resolutely. With that she turned on her heel and trotted back down the stairs, an audible hitch to her step.

Sherlock gasped for air, finally realizing he had been holding his breath the whole time. He placed both hands on the table now, feeling very dizzy. He scrunched up his face in pain, trying to set his brain straight. With more effort than he should have ever exerted doing such a simple task, he walked into his bedroom, yanked open his nightstand drawer, and tore open a box of nicotine patches. He cursed himself for resorting to this and not having the gall to drag himself out the door to buy more cigarettes or meet his dealer. He was becoming paranoid after the night with the police chase. He knew he shouldn't be, but his intelligence was backfiring.

Mycroft's snide comments began to echo through his skull. He slapped two, three patches on his arm and promptly slapped himself, hard, across the face, aching to get his brother's voice out of his head.

"Arghhh! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He yelled, nearly breaking the skin of his temple area as he dug his fingernails in.

"This is ridiculous, YOU'RE being ridiculous!" The patches were slowly taking some of the edge off, thankfully. He was still in pain, that there was no denying, but it was a touch more bearable now. He stumbled back and before he could catch himself, he collapsed onto his bed and felt himself succumbing to exahustion. One thought drifted across his conscious before he was enveloped by the darkness: he needed help.

* * *

He had never been shot before. It hurt a lot more than he had ever anticipated. It was akin to a glass shattering inside his body. His left shoulder blasted back with the force of the shot, taking the rest of his body a millisecond after. His ears were ringing and bright spots burst on his corneas. His hearing was as fuzzy as his head felt. Frantic, hurried voices rushed about him, calling him back to consciousness.

"Captain, Captain Watson focus on my voice, hold on sir," He was floating- no, being carried away from the cross fire. His shoulder was searing. He was certain it was blown to bits. He knew the human brain was not built to process such extreme circumstances all at once, so it shut down certain parts gradually. Right now it was immediate and unforgiving pain, a tearing of flesh that he had seen on the field far too many times yet never felt firsthand until today- until right this second. His pain synapses were firing, but he held himself like a soldier. Always like a soldier.

How ironic, Dr. John Watson, the injured. Injured caring for another fallen soldier, nonetheless. He had been kneeling, stooped low over a young private who had been hit in the right calf. He had thought himself out of range, but he was stupidly mistaken. He should have known better, really. A good sniper can hit a moving target at a range of nearly two kilometers; and he had been sedentary.

"McCary, make sure- make sure he-" He winced, coughing up what was surely blood and dirt. His breathing was becoming labored and he could see a small pool of dark blood soaking through his military jacket. He wished everyone would stop shouting, shouting was doing no one any good. He felt himself being shoved rather unceremoniously into the back of his platoon's humvee. A disconnected yell of pain eminated from his mouth as they took off. He could still hear gunfire outside, could still hear men (possibly his men) shouting and scuffling about. He felt even more life drain out of him as the thought of leaving his men behind actualized. He was abandoning his post, leaving unfinished business, to hell with his impending death- he would rather die on the battlefield than in a medical ward. He only had half an hour at the most, considering the bullet had torn through his body. Blood would be spilling from both ends, unfortunately. It had managed to just miss the protection of his vest, which was always the way, wasn't it? He laughed bitterly to himself at his luck.

"McCary- Leftenant, turn this vehicle around-" Tiny droplets of blood sprayed the back of his hand as he tried to stifle his cough. "The situation- the situation is-"

"Captain, all due respect, you'll bleed out in an hour, we need to get you to a surgeon," Leftenant Brody turned round to take a look at him. "Well, a surgeon that doesn't have a hole ripped through him, no offense meant, sir," He smirked. John cracked a pain, yet genuine smile.

"None taken, Leftenant." He appreciated Brody downsizing the severity of his wound by saying he had a whole hour of conciousness life left. As his Second Lieutenant, Brody was around John Watson enough to pick-up a thing or two about injury statistics.

"Just stay with me, Captain, nearly there..." John blinked, hoping to shoo away the static fuzz that was clouding his vision and encroaching on his hearing now. He could barely feel the once searing wound in his shoulder, but the red splotch was still slowly growing.

_Shock from blood loss_ , he thought, _twenty minutes now_.

Brody was trying to keep him talking as they pulled into the medical outpost, but John's eyes were like lead weights and he suddenly felt like he was viewing himself lying there in the back of the humvee from above. He registered one last bolt of pain as he was hauled out of the vehicle before slipping into darkness.

* * *

With an effort he opened his eyes against the sunlit room. They still throbbed with the pain of withdrawal and cracked with remnants of a restless sleep. No doubt they were still bloodshot, as they had been for what seemed like the past two weeks. He wasn't positive what his current emotional state was today, but the knot working its way up his long, pale throat threatened tears of exhaustion, despite his ten hours of on-off sleep. He lay still, willing himself not to give in to this absurd emotion. He was beyond that, he always had been- except for that one time when he had gotten too emotionally attached.

He was bloody thirsty, but his body ached too much to move right this moment. He wondered how long he could lay here without being noticed; an hour, maybe two at the most considering it was already 10 AM. He surveyed the room in the midday sun; the room which he had been occupying for a fortnight. It was stale, unused. The sunlight had been hitting the area rug just so for the past seven years that the fine Persian fibers were fading slowly. The two chairs flanking the door were just as stiff as the rest of this house. He hadn't bothered sitting in them because nothing matched the comfort of his worn-in leather chair back at Baker Street. The overall stillness was disturbing to him, he needed some sort of stimuli now that the drugs were working their way out of his system.

"Sherlock Holmes," came a sharp knock on his door. And there was the stimulus.

With a childish whimper he pulled the feather comforter over his head of curls and resumed fetal position. The touch of bone on bone admittedly frightened him, for he could not remember the last full meal he ate.

"Your sleep aid has worn off, it was only an eight, nine hour pill at the most," Drawled the voice on the other side of the door.

Sherlock stayed undercover, eyes squeezed shut as if Mycroft was a terrifying monster that would go away eventually. He chastised himself for reverting to such infantile gestures. Amazing what withdrawal can do to a person.

An exasperated sigh from the other side of the door. "Very well, but breakfast will be up shortly. I'm fed up with you letting perfectly good food get cold, so I suggest you shove it down your ungrateful throat lest I resort to getting you a feeding tube."

Sherlock stayed silent. Partly because he was afraid of losing it on his brother, but mostly because he feared his usually eloquent, rich voice would crack embarrassingly from disuse.

"We must all lie in our beds, brother dear. No matter how appallingly they are made." And with that he proceeded back down the hallway, expensive leather footsteps echoing down the marble staircase behind him.

Sherlock coughed, trying to clear his airways for the unavoidable conversation he would soon have with Mycroft.

He could hear his body creaking as he unwrapped the sheets from around his thin frame and touched down on the highly polished hardwood floor. A chill ran up his spine, then another. He glanced at his quietly shaking hands and with a bored sigh, realized he wouldn't be able to distinguish between cold shakes and withdrawal shakes. Wonderful, another bodily function he could not control. He reached under his pillow to calm his nerves with a cigarette. He had been keeping a pack stashed away with him since he got here, only using it when he felt it was most dire. Today was going to be a necessity. He felt it. What he did not feel was his hidden pack under the pillow.

He exhaled sharply, tossing the comforter and pillows to the floor. They were gone, as was his already scarce patience.

"MYCROFT!" He bellowed. Any breaking, hoarseness, or wear he feared his voice would have was gone. It was as booming a baritone as ever and he was certain it carried. The architecture of Mycroft's mansion was built so that sounds carried easily. One could never be too careful as the helm of the British Government and the brother to the less than Golden Boy Sherlock Holmes.

He yanked his navy blue dressing gown around him- one of the only possessions his brother had let him take on his "detox"- and stormed down the stairs, fire in his eyes. he was sure it was fury enabling him to move so quickly and precisely down the corridors and into the dining hall. Even his bare feet pounding along made enough of a sound to echo.

Mycroft was seated at the end of his grandiose table, hands folded neatly in front of him as he grinned smugly at his brother. It turned Sherlock's stomach as he resisted the urge to hurl himself forward and strangle him.

One of his help emerged, carrying a tray filled with food and tea. She failed to break the stare of the Holmes brothers as breakfast was laid down on the mahogany table.

"Thank you, Amanda," He said without blinking. She hurried back into the kitchen to gather what was surely Sherlock's meal. "Have a seat little brother," He motioned to his right, where a place setting had already been arranged. Sherlock scowled, looking from Mycroft to the chair with disdain.

"My cigarettes, please," He hissed, outstretching his palm. Mycroft chuckled, unfolding his napkin, placing it on his lap and cutting into his meat.

"I'm not sure you understand the term 'cold turkey,' Sherlock," He took a bite of his breakfast. "You're here because you have a drug habit, this includes your dependence on cigarettes. I merely completed a step for you by disposing of your stash." He gestured again to the place setting. "Please sit down, you're unnerving me."

"You've been in my room?" Sherlock asked, ashamed that his mind had been so aloof he hadn't noticed Mycroft's snooping.

"Your room? You mean the room I so graciously allowed you to stay in while you work out this," He waved his hand up and down Sherlock's person disgustedly. "Whatever this is." Sherlock groaned, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Mycroft," His lips upturned in a sneer as he tried to find strength to reason with his arduous brother. "Please." The word slipped from his dry lips like poison. "I- I just need one," he hated the pleading undertone in his voice; hated it more than anything.

"Oh Sherlock, isn't that what they all say?" He smirked, never breaking his cool demeanor. "You'll feel better once you eat, ah!" He watched Amanda bring the second tray of food over to Sherlock's place. "Here we are, thank you so much, Amanda. My brother thanks you as well, despite his wearisome attitude." With a nod Amanda disappeared through the door again.

"I told you I would not let another breakfast get cold, now sit," Mycroft spat. With a concerted effort, Sherlock threw himself into the chair, the scowl still plastered on his face. He eyed his plate indifferently, instead deciding to work on the steaming mug of tea.

"Amanda is going to ask you for a raise," Sherlock suddenly spoke, clearly taking Mycroft off guard. He raised an eyebrow.

"She's worn her best shoes today, best skirt, which are both nearly five years old," He continued. "She reeks of department store perfume, another product too aged to be considered pleasant, which indicates she buys the good stuff when she can, but has been falling on hard times for at least several years now. Not to mention the black ink marks on her palm and the bags under her eyes. Either mean she was up late scrawling expenses or writing a formal letter of request," Mycroft's gaze stuck on Sherlock, still not speaking. "And I mean look at how picture-perfect your breakfast is prepared, she's most certainly aiming to please today," He took a long, slow sip of his tea. "Either that or she really likes you, but we don't find many like that, now do we?"

They exchanged sickeningly sweet smiles.

"Lovely to see you haven't lost your mind entirely," Mycroft remarked, resuming his breakfast. "I was beginning to worry those drugs addled your already susceptible brain."

"I'm not a child, Mycroft, your belittling can only go so far," Another sip of his tea.

"A weak mind resorts to such common resolutions," Mycroft muttered. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. He shoved his nose back into his mug.

Hardly a weak mind. Unfortunately his mind was a burden. An animal that constantly needed occupation and stimulation in fear that it would tear the house apart without it. As the wave of depression began to hit him he couldn't help but crack a small smile at the thought of an animal being unattended.

_Mother had been baking for Sherlock's 10th birthday; hard at work in their kitchen sifting together the ingredients for her famous chocolate stout cake. The brothers had quite the mature palette, even in youth. Sherlock's Irish Setter was quietly curled up under the kitchen table, ears twitching every now and then as yells of antagonization disturbed the otherwise peaceful afternoon._

_Mother kept her calm as long as possible before she decided to break-up her son's juvenile argument._

_"Boys!" Mother called, abandoning her flour mixture and marching across the kitchen toward them. Redbeard, in all his clever glory, took the opportunity to examine the cake mixture. No sooner had his glossy paws touched down on the countertop before the bowl of flour flipped over onto the shocked dog in a wonderful plume._   
_The boys erupted in laughter, mother screamed, and Redbeard took off down the hall from all the unexpected chaos, flour cloud trailing behind him like a race car at maximum velocity. He remembered that birthday fondly, which was more than he could say for a majority of them. He and Mycroft remained in good spirits for the rest of the day, mother rallied and created her best cake yet, and father had a good laugh as he returned from work to find Redbeard still spotted with flour and looking rather forlorn._

But that day was ages away from today. Sherlock fixed his gaze on his brother as the laughing teen dissipated and the steely facade replaced it. Those times were long gone, indeed. Sherlock suddenly felt the weight of reality on his chest so severely, he feared a panic attack.

"I need something to do," he croaked. "Some experiments that need to be conducted. I'll stay out of the hair of our dear, abysmal Scotland Yard, but I want to go back to Baker Street." Mycroft finished his meal, pushing the plate an inch away from him and taking his napkin to either side of his mouth, gathering his words.

"I've spoken with Detective Inspector Lestrade," he began. "As long as you stop associating yourself with smack heads and solving cases for them when unasked, he's willing to give you a pass."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical. So dull.

"They overlook so much, I only-" Mycroft held up a hand, silencing him.

"This is not up for debate, I have done you a favor. Although what else is new?" Amanda appeared to take their dishes away. Sherlock waved his away, completely untouched.

"Uh- Sir, I was hoping I could have a word-"

"Yes, yes, come into my office later," Mycroft lazily responded, shooting a glare at his brother. Sherlock smirked, downing the remainder of his tea. Amanda looked alarmed, but said nothing further as she scuttled back into the kitchen.

"Obvious," Sherlock said dryly. It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes.

"Anyway, you're to remain on good terms with Scotland Yard," he continued. "You'll be lucky if Detective Lestrade seeks your assistance at all anymore considering the headache you've been to him lately."

"Oh, it won't be long," Sherlock responded quickly.

"As you may have already guessed, your flat has been rid of all contraband and I must say dear brother, I pegged you as a steadfast fan of the needle," the sneer in his voice did not faze Sherlock.

"One must branch out every now and then," he quipped, mindlessly touching the tips of his fingers to the old puncture marks in the crook of his forearm.

"Charming," Mycroft licked his lips, as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth. "Regardless, I won't be doing this again. You're childish tactics of attention are tiring. I wish you only knew how highly mummy and daddy still think of you. Their darling genius baby boy, doing so well for himself in London, gone to visit his big brother for holiday," He cooed in a mocking tone. "What a nice life for you."

"I never asked for your assistance, Mycroft, never," Sherlock spat back.

Mycroft laughed. "And you never will! But unfortunately your addictive personality would have you crash and burn if I failed to step in. Open your eyes, Sherlock, get a grip."

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared out the window to his left. He was aware he was pouting, but he didn't care. Mycroft was never a shining example of an older brother, no, more like a second, stricter mother.

"In any case, I also took the liberty of speaking with your landlady," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock's attention was snapped back abruptly.

"Mrs. Hudson, why? What concern is she of yours?"

"Easy, Sherlock," he continued. " She merely expressed concern for you, the same way I do." Sherlock audibly scoffed. "We think it best you find a flatmate."

"Oh you've got to be joking!" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously. "I'm perfectly capable of-"

"Ruining your life and mind apparently," Mycroft finished for him. "A flatmate would take the edge off your solitary lifestyle, keep you from jumping off the deep end again, perhaps."

"It would only push me closer," Sherlock held his scowl. "I prefer living alone, I cannot fathom sharing living quarters with a normal, painfully vacant mind. It won't happen. There is absolutely no way." He was steadfast in his stance.

Mycroft hummed, finding his brother's argument amusing.

"Dear Mrs. Hudson has threatened to charge you full price for the flat should you decline," Mycroft said.

"What?" Sherlock gaped.

"It's her flat to rent, her rules."

"Is she forgetting what I did for her?" he was utterly confused, but half suspected this was a ploy of Mycroft's to get him in line.

"Ask her yourself," Mycroft rose from his seat, brushing the creases out of his suit. "Should all else fail, your room upstairs is always open for rent." He smiled wickedly and left the dining hall, the echo of those awful leather Oxfords signaling his exit.

Try as he may, the last thing on Sherlock's to-do list was _'find a flatmate,'_ right behind _'obtain lungs for drowning experiment.'_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time! Next chapter I believe we'll be getting to some good John/Sherlock stuff, woooo!
> 
> As always, kudos are always appreciated! This is the first fic I've posted online since, oh jeez, 2007??

"You've been dismissed, Captain Watson," said the General in his booming voice. John heard the words clearly, but they couldn't be for him, perhaps another Captain Watson in the medical ward, but not him. It was a trick of his hearing, which was only now starting to return in his left ear after being blown out multiple times by explosives.

Yes, that had to be it. He shook his head, as if that would return his hearing any faster and smiled uncomfortably at the General.

"John," the General stared down at his hands, thumbs fiddling with the brim of his cap. "I'm deeply sorry, but you've been medically discharged."

Maybe he **was** the Captain Watson being spoken to. Oh, hell.

"I-, hmm," he quietly cleared his throat and ran a calloused hand through his short, sandy hair. "General, with all due respect, I don't think this is that serious," he was mentally slapping himself. He was a doctor, for god sake, of course he bloody well knew his injury was severe enough to warrant dismissal! His left shoulder was still heavily bandaged. The bullet had broken into several pieces once it hit him and each had to be painfully removed or risk shrapnel reaching hit wital organs. He knew this was coming, but the stubborn denial wouldn't fade. His injury would require enough recoup time that the Army would be forced to send in another Captain. As he processed all this information, eyes fixed on his fisted hands, he grimly wished he would have bled out in the back of that humvee. The General offered little empathy. It wasn't particularly in the job description. John couldn't blame him, how many honorable men and women did he have to dismiss daily? How many families did he have to write to and notify them of their child's death? No, while John was holding his own personal pity party, he could not expect the General to join in.

"Captain Watson, you're duties will not go without honor, that much is certain," the General offered. "You will be shipped out within the week, we thank you for your service." With a curt nod the General placed his cap back on and raised his right hand in salute. Automatically, John returned it, face set in stone. He watched the General turn on his heel and walk back down the rows of hospital beds. John's gaze sunk immediately to his fists, now twisted around the white sheets.

"Oh, and Captain Watson," the General had turned back around, halfway to the exit.

"Yes, sir?" For a brief, shining moment John was sure he was going to say this was all a joke, that he would be back with his platoon within the week instead of leaving them behind in this hell hole. That, despite the still throbbing pain in his shoulder, his wound would not impede him from doing his duty.

"Private McCary," the General began. John's breathing hitched. He wasn't able to save him. He had failed not only in his Captain duties, but in his duties as a medical professional as well. "He's recovering well in the next outpost."

The immense guilt John was expecting didn't come. For the first time in years he felt like crying. Instead he felt the corners of his desert-worn lips upturn slightly.

"Thank-" He was getting too choked up. Pull it together, John. "Thank you sir, that's great." He saluted once more before watching the General depart.

He took a few deep breaths, exhaling loudly. He ran his hands over his tanned face, pulling back his soft, yet strong features as his fingers ended up in his hair once more.

And just like that his tour had ended. His service had ended. In just a few short days he would be returning home. All the decisions he never thought he would have to make were now knocking on the forefront of his mind. Returning to his sister, to her fucked up world, to a nonexistent housing situation, to mundane everyday life, to bills and a job search and-

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, forcing the rush of thoughts down. That life, his new life, was much more frightening than war, in his opinion. He decided he was simply going to take each day separately or else he knew he would have a breakdown. He would need physical therapy maybe, be assigned a therapist, be expected to act the proper war veteran. He would not alert Harry of his return until he was off the plane. It didn't matter anyway, he could just as well show up at her doorstep. If she even lived at the same flat still, he thought bitterly. Could have gotten herself thrown out for all he knew.

He winced as a fresh bought of pain surged through his upper body. His morphine was wearing off. With a silent chuckle he imagined himself ending up as a pain killer addict after all this and it gave him some sense of solice. At least he had enough wits about himself to not become a drug addict.

* * *

 

"I knew you would miss me too much," Sherlock grinned mischievously when Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped into 221B.

"Keep quiet, you," Lestrade warned. Sherlock shrugged and resumed gently plucking his violin strings. Lestrade glanced around the flat, taking in as much of Sherlock current situation as he could. Remnants of experiments were littered all around the flat. An awful smell of burnt hair was coming from the kitchen and shards of glass were strung up from the ceiling, catching the light as they slowly turned. Other than the added mess of Sherlock's frenzied experiments, the place seemed in its usual state of chaos.

"Looks like you're keeping yourself busy," Lestrade said, mindlessly picking up a human femur from the coffee table.

"Don't touch!" Sherlock snapped, bouncing up from his chair and snatching the bone from Lestrade's hands. "Inside I've placed a highly sensitive chemical compound where the bone marrow was extracted," Sherlock daintily balanced the femur on his spindly fingers and placed it on his mantle, right next to his skull. He patted the yellowing skull fondly and whirled back around to face Lestrade, smiling that brilliantly terrifying Sherlock Holmes smile.

"Er- right, I'm not even going to ask…" Lestrade decided to pocket his hands so as to not disturb anything else.

"Oh but you should," Sherlock countered, almost begging Lestrade to pry.

"Well, I was going to ask-"

"But it's much too complex. I mean, you would never understand the implications of this compound," Sherlock interrupted, literally waving his question off. "Unfortunately Anderson may, but I'm not about to go inviting him over for a chemistry slumber party."

Lestrade shut his mouth with an alarmed snap. He hadn’t realized it was open.

“Riiiight,” He raised an eyebrow and scratched his grey stubble absentmindedly. “In any case, you look like you’re doing well.” Sherlock hummed his- what was he humming? His approval? Agreement? Acknowledgement? Lestrade took it as his opportunity to continue.

“Way Mycroft was talking, you’d think you’d moved into one of your old drug dens permanently,” He said lightheartedly. “Sounded like there was almost no helpin’ ya, eh?”

“My brother has a penchant for unnecessary elaboration,” he said, scrawling something down on a nearby sheet of paper. Lestrade craned his neck to examine, but all that was visible were identically placed scribbles in a column. Possibly keeping track of something?

“Deducing doesn’t quite suit you, Gerald.”

“Greg!”

“Greg,” Sherlock corrected nonchalantly. “Funny you got as far as you did in your career with such deplorable deduction skills.” He crossed his hands behind his back, relishing teasing the DI.

Lestrade groaned. He knew the idiot was just trying to rile him up. In a normal situation, he would snap back with a medicore retaliation, but he took the high road. In Sherlock’s fragile state he really didn’t have the energy to get into it with the consulting detective. Sherlock seemed to pick-up on Lestrade’s strategy and dropped his playful attitude.

“Anyway, you’re here because of the suicide on the tube last night, yes?” Lestrade was happy they were back to business.

“Yeah, forensics took their turn, we looked at tapes, all signs point to suicide,” He took a seat on the arm of the couch. “Bloke just saw fit to killing himself. Open and close case normally; except for this,” he extracted a few photographs from his coat pocket and tossed them down on the coffee table. Sherlock was quick to pick them up, icy eyes scanning them throughly.

“A wire, he was wearing a wire,” he breathed. The light beginning to illuminate those cold eyes was unmistakable. It was as if the color was returning to his face as his mouth twisted into a smile- Sherlock’s trademark smile Lestrade had come to the conclusion. Because no one else in their right mind could pull that insane grin off. “Oh, wonderful! Finally!” He quickly stuck the photos in his breast pocket, snatched his long charcoal coat from a nearby chair, and practically flew down the stairs.

“Oi! I need those back, that’s evidence! You’re not even supposed to have those!” Lestrade yelled, taking the stairs two at a time in order to catch up with the man.

It had been nearly two months since leaving his brother’s. He still shook every now and then, but it was ever so slowly becoming more tolerable. The steady stream of cases (none of them above a 5, but he was taking what he could), influx of body parts in his freezer, and annoying surveillance of his actions were keeping him occupied enough. That was all Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson could ask for, a busy Sherlock. Although he couldn’t stop her from putting an ad out that 221B was looking for a flatmate, he managed to scare off each possible tenant. Just an added benefit of having human remains in his freezer.

Yet despite all this activity, the three packs of cigarettes hiding in his flat and the ready-to-go needle in a hollowed out dictionary called to him with alarming tenacity each night.


End file.
